


Bringing Back the '50s

by BobRoser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobRoser/pseuds/BobRoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft needs Sherlock's help, but everything falls apart when Molly Hooper, and mafia boss Jim Moriarty enter the picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Back the '50s

**Author's Note:**

> For kendrapendragon's prompt on tumblr.  
> I'm sorry that I can't really write fight scenes, and that my date checking on this one consisted of 'watching YouTube clips from Grease'. Any anachronisms, OOC Sherlock or other general mistakes are mine.

Sherlock Holmes had never been to any kind of club, or even a bar, as he had no interest in drinking, scantily clad women or this new-fangled jazz. It probably would have stayed that way, were it not for Mycroft Holmes.  
'This case requires a young, attractive, charming man, and you are the nearest fit I can find for any of those criteria.'  
'No.'  
'Sherlock, this man is dangerous. This woman could be our only route to him. Stolen goods are being bought and sold in this club. This is important.'  
'No.'  
'Sherlock, I'm not going to fight with you...'  
'No.'  
'I will pay your marijuana debts'  
Now Sherlock was tempted. He had had a drug habit in his teenage years, and couldn't seem to shake off two of his most persistent dealers.  
'And?'  
'And I'll find you some 'fun' cases to entertain you once you've finished here.'  
After a moment's thinking, Sherlock gave his brother a look that said 'this doesn't mean you've won', and then shook his hand.  
'Where is this bar?' He spat the last word out like a cherry stone, every letter tinged with disgust.

Molly Hooper was always nervous, every night, but tonight was worse. He was here. Passing through town, as he always did. He never really stopped, just passed through, flashed his white teeth, lit up a cigar and was off again. Generally he left quickly, but sometimes he stayed until the singing and dancing was over. That was the worst. He had no reservations about entering her dressing room at any time, especially the wrong time, and would often sit in there, smoking and watching. The thick, grey cigar smoke hung over the place like a raincloud whenever he visited. A part of her loved him, the charisma, the looks, the charm, but she knew she was being taken advantage of. She just didn't know how to make it stop.  
As she climbed the steps to the stage Molly fiddled awkwardly with the fake pearls around her bony neck.  
She saw him, at the back, a glass in his hand. He smiled crookedly at her, as she clutched the microphone.  
James Moriarty was a mafia man, engaged in all sorts of criminal activity, he oozed wealth, glamour and infamy. Molly Hooper was his girl, his singer, and she was happy. This was what she had to remember, every night, but it was less true every time she tried to convince herself.

Sherlock wasn't used to coming to this part of town, neon lights, a smoky smell, and music calling like sirens round every corner, except on the occasional case, which he supposed he still was. But this task was rather out of his usual comfort zone.  
As he approached 'Moriarty's', squinting at the scrawled directions his brother had given him, he heard a few sweet notes. Generally, Sherlock appreciated only classical music, but there was something about this voice. It was a female voice, sugary, but with a brassy tone, and he stood for a moment, listening.  
Sherlock shook himself internally, and stepped over the threshold. Blending into the crowd, he looked around. The floor was tiled in black and white, and bar stools framed the room. The men that surrounded him all wore pin-sharp suits and trilby hats, and smoked thick, brown cigars. The women wore tea dresses in vibrant colours, a few even daring to wear their skirts above their knees. The girl with the treacle toffee voice stood on the round stage, crooning into the microphone. Her dress was white silk, a strip of red ribbon tied in a bow around her neck, pearls around her neck and flowers in her brown curls. Her lips were painted crimson and her eyes flashed under the light. That must be her, he realised. The girl he needed. 

It went perfectly well, just as it always did. She sang, and she danced, and she never once let her fake smile drop.  
Just like every other night.  
The audience clapped momentarily before returning to their drinks, and Molly fled for the dressing room.  
Jim wasn't in the crowd, and Molly felt her heart sink as she realised this meant he'd probably beaten her to the dressing room.  
As the other girls dispersed, she found her way to the dressing room. Nervously, dreading his presence, she pushed the door open. There, silhouetted against the bulb studded mirror, was a skinny man in a black suit.  
But it wasn't Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock wanted this job to be over as quickly as possible. He wanted to get back to his proper cases, and his deductions, and proper music.  
So he had to get it done. Unpleasant as it was.  
He had never done anything like this before. Relationships had always been faff to him, pointless and distracting. So seducing this dancing girl was going to be a difficult task.  
But he needed those debts paid.  
The dressing room felt like a good place to start.

The man standing in her dressing room had pale skin, and high cheekbones.  
Dark curls framed his thin, angular face, and though he was not conventionally handsome, there was something intangibly beautiful about him. Almost ethereal.  
He wore a silk shirt which clung slightly to his chest, under a black trench coat which swished slightly as he moved, like a wizard's cloak.  
'Evening.' he said simply in a voice both deep and rich, tipping his hat.  
'Um, hello.'  
'You're an excellent singer.' A thousand butterflies filled her stomach, and she felt their wing beats lifting her. She felt like she was flying.  
'Thank you.'

Sherlock Holmes wasn't often nervous, but there was something about this girl that made him struggle to get his words out. She wasn't exceptionally beautiful, but she was just so... Kind. She looked kind. She was obviously not there by choice, she was there because she had to be, and yet, this never got in the way of her attitude of wonder and acceptance of the world and everyone in it. Everything about her gave the aura of someone who helps old ladies carry their shopping.  
Most of the people Sherlock Holmes engaged with did not give that aura.  
And although he was a stranger, coming uninvited into her dressing room, she treated him with aching politeness and goodness. It mystified him. 

Molly watched him, his animated expressions, his fascinating insights, in total awe.  
She barely spoke to him, that first night. She didn't ask who he was, where he came from, what his age was, why he was there.  
But he knew everything about her. She never asked him how. She wasn't sure she really wanted to know. He asked her about Jim a lot, and about the club, and about her job. She always answered honestly.  
She liked that he was shrouded in mystery, she though of him as the tall, dark stranger of fairy tales. He was also highly skilled in the avoidance of Jim.  
But the mystery confused her, too. What were they? Were they in love? Were they friends? And would he stop coming? That was her biggest fear.

He came again the next night.  
The same as before, he just appeared in the dressing. He flirted with her, swished his coat, commented on her performance. Molly enjoyed his presence. It made her feel special.  
Then one night, he changed tack.  
He looked right into her eyes and said 'I am here for a reason, Miss Hooper, there's something I have to do.'  
'What do you need?'  
'You.' He said it just as he normally would speak to her, in his normal, flirtatious manner, but somehow, a very small part of him wasn't acting anymore.  
That small part of him frightened him, went against everything he thought he knew about himself.  
He fled.  
As he ran down the corridor, a young, suited man caught his eye.  
Jim Moriarty.

The mysterious stranger didn't come back the next night.  
Or the next.  
Or the next.  
Or the next.  
Molly found herself half wishing he would, watching the door in the corner, waiting for the pale face to appear in the crowd.  
A week passed. There was no sign of the man.  
Molly almost stopped expecting him, starting to believe she had dreamed him, but the hope remained. Molly Hooper was a relentless optimist. 

Sherlock Holmes was sprawled on his bed, thinking.  
This wasn't normal for him. Something was wrong. He never normally got this way. He never normally felt things this way.  
He couldn't go back.  
He would have to tell Mycroft that the deal was off.  
He would have to concede defeat.  
Sherlock threw his feet over the side of the bed, and pushed himself up.  
But somehow, his feet were not taking him to Mycroft's. Like muscle memory, like an instinct, he found himself outside 'Moriarty's'. He was about to turn round and leave, when suddenly they surrounded him.  
Sherlock Holmes was used to being attacked. But he didn't like to be outnumbered.

Molly was brushing out her brown hair when she heard it. Mostly she ignored the muggings. Jim's boys were always up to something. But tonight was different.  
She heard her name. Jim said her name.  
'Stay away from my Molly!'  
Her breath caught in her throat at the words.  
Of course. This was her ethereal stranger.  
She ran out into the street.  
There he was, surrounded by a group of Jim's boys. The man himself stood nearby.  
'Jim!'  
'Honey, can you leave daddy-o to his work please?' His Irish-American accent grated on her ears.  
'Leave him alone!'  
'Get back in side! This is nothing to do with you. Baby, don't make me come over there.'  
'Jim!'  
'Jim's busy, baby. Now GET BACK INSIDE!'  
His eyes flared, he seemed to double in size. She knew there was no use fighting with him when he got that way. Molly conceded, and recoiled to her bed, but she didn't sleep. She felt weak, she felt guilty. Her stranger was lying in the street, blood mixing with the rain water, all bashed up. It was her fault. And Jim would punish her. She was sure.

Sherlock lay on the pavement for hours, the sun set and darkness fell. Though, through the neon and the lamp posts, it was never really dark in that part of town.  
If it weren't for Mrs Hudson, his old governess, passing in the street, he would have been there all night, stripped of his coat, his leather wallet and his wristwatch.  
Mrs Hudson fussed over him, insisted he stayed in bed.  
Though he would never say it, he loved the woman, but the feeling if being protected, of being weak, frustrated him.  
But somehow it gave him new motivation. He was angry, angry at this man who had beaten him. And he knew there was only one way to defeat him.

She knew he wouldn't hit her. He never did. He couldn't have her injured on stage, bruised or bashed or bleeding.  
But what he did was worse.  
Always worse.  
She was so angry. She couldn't live with him anymore, but she knew too that, homeless, jobless and hunted by half of the Vegas mafia, she couldn't live without him, either.  
So she stayed. And somehow, she kept waiting, waiting for her stranger.  
She started to wonder when he became her stranger.  
Until one night, there he was. Just the same as before, standing in her dressing room..  
'If he finds you, he'll...'  
'I know. But I'm going to find him first.'  
'What do you mean?'  
'Where is he tonight?'  
'Right here.' A voice from outside called.

And he was. Jim Moriarty stood in the door way, pistol pointed at Sherlock.  
Sherlock pulled a gun from the pocket of his coat.  
'Good evening.' Sherlock said stiffly  
Moriarty fired a shot, and Sherlock ducked. The bullet ricocheted off the mirror, and Molly Hooper screamed.  
'You're good!' The Irishman laughed.  
Three shots rang out, and Moriarty was the one dodging this time, bullets burying themselves in the geometric wallpaper. But Moriarty recovered quickly, charged towards Sherlock, gun in hand. Sherlock grabbed the gun, pushing the barrel up towards the ceiling, but he wasn't quick enough.  
Moriarty shot, and Sherlock felt a piercing pain in his shoulder.

Molly Hooper had always been taught that fighting was men's business, that she should sit around and wait to be saved. But this was different.  
Sherlock lay on the floor of her dressing room, a bullet embedded in his collarbone. And Jim stood over him. Gun in hand. Anger, like a beast, welled up inside her, and somehow she hated him. And then she realised she always had.  
She could see Sherlock's hand gun, a few inches from his limp hand.  
Jim was distracted, basking in his own glory, and it only took a tiny pull of the trigger.  
He was gone.

Sherlock Holmes didn't remember much.  
He remembered pain, he remembered noise, he remembered the hospital, he remembered Mycroft congratulating him.  
But most of all, he remembered her.  
Her by his bedside, her telling him that she had shot Moriarty, her stroking his hair while she thought he was asleep, her laughing at his declarations of boredom.  
Her. 

Molly Hooper loved many things.  
She loved raindrops on windows, she loved to sing, she loved the smell of dried leaves in Autumn.  
But most of all, she loved him.  
Him talking in his sleep, him making his deductions, the way he told her everyday how boring the hospital was, the way he occasionally smiled, but only when he thought no one could see.  
Him.


End file.
